The Muse in the Mutterings
by wheelchick
Summary: Randomness. Collection of mostly unrelated B&B one-shots. Some AU but mostly canon. I foresee more fluff than angst. T for now.
1. Take Me Out

_Howdie, folks. Welcome to my world of randomness. I will go where the muse takes me, hopefully about once a week. Some of these, I fear, will be more successful than others, but whatcha gonna do?_ _I will be happy to take prompts, challenges, etc. and as always, I love reviews. __They make me all warm and gooey inside. ;)_

_This is somewhere after 6X22, I guess, although it could also just be AU..._

_Don't own Bones._

* * *

"You want to go _where_?"

"To the opera, Booth. That seems to me to be an appropriate activity for this 'date' you keep talking about."

This wasn't happening to him. He absolutely refused to believe this was happening to him. It was like some sort of karmic comeuppance for not keeping his mouth shut.

For three weeks, they'd been practically inseparable, enjoying the fact that they could just _be _together. There had been no big conversation, no big declarations, just a few murmured words before falling asleep in each other's arms that first night. They were all talked out. There had been so many pained exchanges and near misses over the years. Now was the time for stolen kisses and midday rendezvouses. They weren't putting a label on it. They weren't telling anyone about it––Angela excepted. They were just _being_.

Booth had been exceptionally happy with this arrangement. Somehow they had made it to this place, where there was no more pressure or fear or doubt. He wasn't pushing; she wasn't running. It was good. Hell, it was fantastic.

And then he had gone and opened his damn mouth.

"_Thai tonight?"_

_"Hey, Bones, maybe we should try some place new. You know, get gussied up and go out."_

"_Booth, are you asking me out on a date?"_

Shit. Shit shit shit. Shit._ "Yeah, Bones. I guess I am."_

_She shrugged, turning away from him to get her purse. "I think I'd rather stay in tonight."_

They had gone back to her apartment, worked up an appetite by christening her kitchen counter, and ordered Thai food after all. He'd only gotten halfway through his pad kee mao before being seriously distracted by the way the edge of his shirt, which she had put on for dinner, brushed against her thigh. Round two ensued.

It had been a great night.

In fact, Booth told himself, 'staying in' with Bones these days was a hell of a lot more enjoyable than dealing with all the crap involved in going out. This way he always had a parking spot, and there was a definite charm to not having to worry about dress codes…or clothes, for that matter. Who needed to get 'gussied up' anyway?_ Who even says that?_

But he couldn't let it go. She hadn't said 'no,' exactly, but she hadn't said 'yes' either. And suddenly all the voices in his head that had stayed mercifully silent since they'd started doing…_this_…sprang to life. The most damnable among them kept repeating two words: _biological urges._

He knew this wasn't just about sex for either one of them; he would have staked his life on it. He loved her. She loved him. He knew it as surely as he loved his son. They were playing for keeps; he could feel it in his bones.

But he also knew that really being a couple––the kind of couple he had always dreamed of being––meant doing couple-y things, like going out. Like PDA. He didn't need to make out with her in the halls of the Jeffersonian (not that he would have minded), but he did like the idea of holding her hand or kissing her for all the world to see. He liked the idea of everyone knowing, at a glance, that she was his. Bones would've said he was being very 'alpha male' and maybe he was. But part of him also felt like maybe if people saw them together, if people, strangers even, knew, then it would be that much more real.

So he kept thinking about it. He hadn't quite found the courage to ask her again, but he had started not so subtly dropping the word 'date' into conversation after conversation. He wasn't exactly sure when she had caught on, but clearly she had, because he now found himself rooted to her office floor, mouth agape, getting roped into going to the freaking opera.

God clearly had a sense of humor. Booth hated musicals, but he positively loathed opera. Here was Bones offering to do the thing he'd been obsessing over for days: to go out with him in the real world. It just so happened that she was also asking him to sit through a whole mess of excruciating boredom in the process. This was not the date he had envisioned. Not by a long shot.

He couldn't say 'no;' he didn't really want to 'yes.' He was stuck. _Be careful what you wish for, schmuck._

"Do you or do you not want to go on a date with me?" Brennan asked pointedly, appearing increasingly frustrated by the dumbstruck look on Booth's face.

"Of course I do, Bones. I just…opera? Seriously? It's not really my thing."

She cocked her head to the side at that. "I thought it might appeal to your sentimental side. Epic love stories and all that. You have a penchant for the romantic, do you not?"

He groaned as he moved towards the couch. "Yeah, Bones. But––"

"Grand gestures, Booth. You like grand gestures. And opera is all about grand gestures, about emotions so strong they must be given voice in song!" she declared with a certain flourish. She had him; she could tell by the way he slouched his shoulders in defeat.

He wasn't about to give in just yet, though. "Bones," he whined in a tone reminiscent of Parker, "the singing is, you know, beautiful, but I like my singing to be in a more, you know, music-focused setting. Like a club or an arena."

She raised an eyebrow. "It seems to me that arenas would be less 'music-focused' than, say, the Kennedy Center."

"I don't like my music to have plot."

"That's ridiculous. Almost all the music you listen to involves some sort of narrative."

He was running out of options. "I just thought we'd go to dinner and maybe a movie or something. The opera isn't really a first-date destination."

"Well, this isn't really a first date, now, is it?"

"How do you figure?"

"In my experience, first dates typically involve activities which allow for a determination concerning compatibility. As a result, they are also normally accompanied by a certain amount of anxiety and/or excitement, particularly concerning the possibility of engaging in sexual inter––"

"Bones!" He couldn't stand to think back to all the dates she'd been on over the years, all the guys who had shown up at her door hoping they were going to wind up in her bed. _No more first dates for you, Bones. _"I get it. We know each other. We know we're compatible." He gave her a sultry onceover. "So how do you get from that to opera?"

She shrugged, ignoring the flutter in her stomach at his heated gaze. "My publisher gave me tickets. I wanted to go." She paused dramatically for effect. "I wanted to go with you."

_Shit, Bones. _He was putty in her hands. "Alright," he finally sighed, moving towards her. "But there better be screens with the words and stuff. I'm not up on my French or Italian or whatever."

"Opera-titles? Yes, of course. The audience can't all be expected to know Chinese," she answered matter-of-factly.

"_Chinese!_? You have tickets to a _Chinese_ opera!"

"Did I not mention that?"

"No, Bones, you didn't." There was a line, only so much a man could put up with.

"It's _kunqu_ to be exact. _Peony Pavillion_. Perhaps you've heard of it?"

As far as Booth was concerned, this date scenario was quickly devolving into cruel and unusual punishment. And then he saw it: a familiar glint in her eye. _She wouldn't…_

"Can't say that I have, Bones," he responded dryly. "How long is this thing anyway?"

He saw it again before she answered. Her feigned obliviousness was starting to wear around the edges. _She's toying with you. But why?_

"Fifty-five acts. But they are only doing excerpts."

"Fifty-five acts," he repeated. "Wow."

As he took a step forward and another and another, she walked backward until she felt her desk against the back of her thighs. He effectively trapped her between his arms, gripping the edge of the table on either side of her hips.

"Tell me, Bones. Have I ever, _ever_, given you any reason to believe that I would actually enjoy sitting through one act of Chinese opera, let alone fifty-five?"

A sly grin crept across her face. He had figured it out. "No, I suppose not."

"What are you playing at here, Bones?" he whispered into her ear, sending a shiver down her spine.

"I don't know what that means."

"You know exactly what it means."

She sighed, leaning back so she could look into his eyes. She brushed his cheek with her fingertips and held his gaze earnestly for a moment. "You want to take me out, right?" There was no playfulness in her voice, no flash in her eyes. She was serious.

He swallowed. "Yeah. I do."

"Then I suggest you stop moping around and do it, before I really do make you sit through four hours of torture."

_Oh, Bones. _He could only smile ruefully at that. "I thought…maybe you didn't want…I dunno what I thought."

"I don't know either. But when 'date' became your new favorite word…"

"You and me. Tomorrow night."

"Okay. What about tonight?" His lips were so close to hers she could practically taste them.

"Tonight, we are very much staying in." He gave her his crooked smile, the one that made her stomach clench in anticipation.

"That sounds like an excellent plan."

When she was ready to leave, he put his hand at the small of her back and led her out towards the exit.

"Would you have done it?"

"What?"

"Gone with me?"

"Yeah, Bones. I would've sat through the whole damn thing. For you."

"Seeing a Chinese opera. Now that's love," she mumbled to herself.

"What did you just say?"

"Just something Angela told me today."

_Angela. Of course._ _That explains a lot._

"I think I may still go, you know."

"By yourself?"

"Maybe I'll ask Andrew…"

_Hacker! _"Funny, Bones. Real funny."

* * *

_Lest I get angry PMs from kunqu fans, let me say this: 其实，我比较喜欢中国戏剧，尤其是《牡丹亭》之类的传奇，可是在我看来，Booth是并不会喜欢的。你觉得呢？_

_Look at that shiny, blue review button. It's calling to you. I know it is. ;)_


	2. Eyes on the Prize

_This is...well, I'm not sure what this is..._

_We learned in Season 7 that Brennan didn't have any lingerie before Booth's oh-so-thoughtful gift. Now imagine that we lived in a world where HH hadn't tortured us for quite so long and B&B had gotten together secretly sometime in Season 5. Now think of Angela._

_Okay. That's how you get this._

_Don't own Bones._

* * *

Angela Montenegro was on a mission. Her spidey senses had been tingling for a few days now; Booth and Brennan seemed to be almost _cautious_ around each other, like they didn't want to let something slip, like they didn't trust themselves in each other's presence. They were hiding something, and it was time to figure out exactly what it was.

She hoped it meant her best friend had finally seen the light and promptly thrown herself into Booth's arms. She hoped it meant she would soon be able to supplement her own fantasies of the Very Special Agent in question with a few new, juicy details.

But she had to admit that the more likely scenario involved some sort of fight. Maybe Booth had offered himself to his partner and she had turned him down. Maybe he was pissed at some very Brennan-esque thing she had said. Or maybe Booth had just decided to be an ass.

_Typical_.

Whatever it was, both Brennan and Booth were playing it close to the vest. Angela's usual poking around hadn't yielded a scrap of information. Everything was "fine," they said. Brennan was just "tired." Booth was "worried about the case."

Angela wasn't buying any of it. She started upping her game, crashing their lunches at the diner and calling at all hours just to 'check in.' Once, she even showed up at her friend's apartment unannounced on the off-chance that she would catch Booth half-naked, hiding in Brennan's bedroom closet. _Or naked. That would've worked, too._

But she had gotten nothing. Nada. Zilch. Rien du tout.

It was time to break out the big guns. It was time to take Brennan shopping.

Booth had the interrogation room; priests had confessionals; and Angela had the changing-room stall.

In Angela's experience, the truth had a nasty way of popping out when hopped up on mocha frappucinos and trying on clothes. Something about the combination of caffeine and the vulnerability of placing yourself in front of a mirror over and over again was more effective than any truth serum Hodgins had ever ranted to her about.

Even so, Angela wasn't taking any chances. She wasn't just taking Brennan on your everyday try-on-something-you-like shopping blitz. No, they were going in search of two very specific items: a new pair of jeans and a push-'em-up bra. It would involve hours of trying to find the perfect fit for their unique curves, hours filled with the frustration and self-doubt that would inevitably be part of that process. _Enhanced interrogation techniques, my ass. This is every woman's nightmare._

Not surprisingly, Brennan wasn't exactly enthusiastic about Angela's excursion. She had "work to do," she said. _A likely story._ But after having been duly informed of the importance of girl-bonding time, especially when engaging in activities so damaging to one's self-esteem, Brennan relented. They met at the mall and Angela's plan was soon underway.

.

.

.

Fourteen pairs of jeans and two iced coffees later, Brennan did not seem to be any closer to divulging her well-kept secret––whatever it was––and Angela was starting to get impatient. She would just have to trust that the bras would make Bren crack.

"What kind of brassiere are you looking for, Angela? I am quite satisfied with my undergarments."

"Oh, sweetie. You can never have too many bras."

"I'm sure that is, in fact, not the case, Ang." She shrugged, even as she followed her friend toward their next destination. "I have a number of options for everyday use and a few strapless for the odd gown that requires it. I don't need any more."

"Come on, Bren. Don't you have a stash of sexy underwear in a drawer somewhere? You can always add to that."

"No, I have never seen the need to adorn myself like that for a man."

Angela stopped in her tracks. Suddenly, this wasn't about information retrieval so much as imparting critical Girl 101 wisdom. "Not for a man, sweetie. For you."

"I don't know what that means."

"It means sometimes, when you're down and you feel _bleeh_––"

"That is not a very pleasant sound, Ang…"

"Exactly. Sometimes, when you feel like that, you put on a frilly bra and you feel better about yourself. It makes you feel sexy."

"That doesn't make any sense."

"I know. But it's true. And because you happen to have enough money to buy all the lingerie in the world, _we _are going to _that_ La Perla. Now."

Before Brennan could grumble about how much she hated psychology, Angela was dragging her into the store by the arm. Once inside, a by-now very excited Angela went over to consult with a saleswoman for several minutes. After scanning Brennan intently, the woman started flitting around from rack to rack, pulling down all manner of bra, panty, and negligee as well as a few garter belts. Several minutes later, Angela motioned to Brennan to follow her into the changing-room area.

"Tada!" Angela intoned happily, gesturing to a huge pile of lace, silk, and satin.

"Ang…" It was almost a whine.

"Just try them on. It'll be good for you."

With only a halfhearted attempt at refusing, Brennan disappeared into the little room that had been prepared for her.

Angela was practically giddy with excitement, thoughts of torturing her friend momentarily forgotten. Brennan needed help with the finer points of being a girl on occasion, and Angela believed it was her responsibility to show her the ropes. Truth be told, she loved doing it, and now this golden opportunity had fallen into her lap. She would still get her information, but happily, now she could give her BFF something worthwhile in return.

_Every woman needs a little spice in her underwear drawer._

As Angela had originally foreseen, it took Brennan some time to find something in the large mound of garments that fit properly. Some cups were too big; some were too small; and some fit snugly on one side but not on the other. Then there was the whole issue of comfort. Just when she was about to start cursing her natural asymmetry, Brennan came upon an essentially sheer bra with red lace detailing that finally seemed to hug her body the way it was supposed to.

"How ya doin' in there, sweetie?"

"I think this may be satisfactory." She slipped the matching panties over the cotton pair she was wearing and came out to look at herself in the full-length mirrors next to where Angela was stationed. "What do you think? Acceptable?"

"Oh my God, Brennan. You look incredible!" Angela was practically jumping up and down. "Are you _seeing_ this! You're like the sexiest thing _ever_!"

"Well, I _am_ very attractive, Ang, but you can in no way corroborate that statement." Brennan shook her head slightly, but she had to admit that Angela had a point. The ensemble she was wearing was basically useless––nothing was left to the imagination––but somehow, that fact only made her look and feel all the more decadent. It was an exercise in luxury, not utility.

"Okay, but knowing you're hot and _feeling_ hot are two different things. So how do you _feel_, Bren?"

"Like I'm a little crazy for wearing this…and maybe a little…empowered?" Brennan seemed strangely bemused by this confession. She was not a woman who lacked self-confidence.

Meanwhile, Angela was doing a rather extravagant happy dance on the inside. _Now we're getting somewhere_. "I _told_ you."

A few minutes passed as the two women continued to inspect Brennan's reflection in the mirrors.

"You should try something in blue," Angela finally said. "It'll bring out your eyes…I say go for the whole package. Baby doll, garters. The works."

"Angela, I thought this wasn't for a man. I doubt very much that I will start parading around my apartment in a negligee just to _feel _hot, as you put it."

"Just work with me here, okay? Besides, you never know. Some day you might end up with a guy you actually _want _to parade around in a negligee for. Always be prepared. That's what I say."

At that, Brennan quickly moved to barricade herself in the small room once again, but she didn't quite succeed in closing the door before Angela spotted her blush.

_What the…_

And that's all it took for the artist to catch the scent.

Brennan wasn't a blusher. Very, very few topics of conversation made her uncomfortable. Sex was not one of them. But strong emotions were.

As far as Angela was concerned, this could only mean one thing: Brennan already had a guy she'd happily sport lingerie for, whether she'd cop to the feeling or not. And there was only one reason she wouldn't share this new development: that guy was Booth.

_Oh. My. God._

Angela's internal happy dance had reached a new level by the time Brennan came back out, this time in several layers of blue lace and chiffon. She looked even more stunning.

"Ang, I think…I think perhaps a pair of high heels…"

Angela grinned. "I think you're right. Hang on." She disappeared, only to return a few moments later with two black pumps dangling from her fingers. "Turns out, you're not alone. Here, try these on."

As Brennan did as she was instructed, Angela fished a hairclip out of her purse and proceeded to pile the anthropologist's long brown locks atop her head.

Their eyes met in the mirror.

It was time for Angela to test out her theory. "You're gonna drive Booth crazy looking like this. He's gonna forget his own freakin' name."

Brennan's eyes went wide as she blushed again. "Angela, you know Booth and I don't…There will be no opportunity for him to…"

_Bingo, baby._

"Now you listen to me, Temperance Brennan. Something happened, and I want details. I'm your best friend. I'm the person you tell." She put her hands on her hips. "Spill."

"Angela…I don't think Booth would want me to…"

"Well, Booth can shove it." _Desperate times call for desperate measures._ "This is girl time. What Booth wants doesn't matter."

"Is that a rule?"

"Yes. Spill," she said again.

"It just sort of happened." Brennan looked down at the floor, rolling her ankle slightly and playing with her borrowed shoes. She suddenly seemed very young. "A man came up to me at the Founding Fathers, clearly hoping to engage in intercourse with me later that evening. I wasn't interested, but when Booth came back from the restroom, he saw that the man had taken his seat and he…he became very agitated."

"He was jealous." It was a statement, not a question.

"Apparently. He was being very possessive. I did not appreciate it. Words were exchanged outside the bar. And then he…he kissed me."

"And?"

"Booth is a very private person, Angela. I will not divulge the details of his sex life. Girl time or no girl time."

So there had been sex. _YES!_

"Fine, fine. I can use my imagination," she smirked. "But it was good?"

A radiant smile stretched across Brennan's face. "It was significantly better than 'good,' Angela." She added more quietly, "It still is."

A matching smile found its way to Angela's lips, and with a "Hallelujah!" she pulled Brennan into an enthusiastic hug. "I'm _so_ happy for you. You have no idea!"

Angela was truly ecstatic. But just as she was about to pull away from their embrace to reiterate that fact, Brennan whispered, "I'm scared, Ang."

"Of what, sweetie?"

"Of disappointing him…not in bed, obviously…in life…Booth…he has certain expectations…I just…How do I give him what he wants but still be…me?"

"That, Brennan, is _the_ age-old question." Angela grabbed her squarely by the shoulders. "Look, this isn't going to be easy, but you have two very important things going for you. First, Booth is about as in love with you as a man can get––"

"But I'm not even sure I believe in love the way Booth does!"

"Let me finish." She wasn't about to let Brennan psych herself out of this. "Booth loves _you_. He knows you––maybe even better than I do––and he loves you. And unless he has suddenly morphed into a Grade-A douchebag, he doesn't want you to change for him. Not now and not ever. Okay?"

"Okay." She didn't sound convinced. "And the second thing?"

"That said," Angela sighed, "Booth will have his douchebag moments. All men do. They can't help it. And with Booth, that means that one day he'll ask you for something that you're not sure you're ready to give."

Brennan nodded, seeing the wisdom in her friend's words.

"That's where I come in. You tell me how angry and hurt and confused you are. And I tell you just how much of an unreasonable prick Booth is being. I help you figure it out."

"Yeah?"

"It's my job, Bren. I promise, I will not let you lose yourself in this." Angela looked into her best friend's eyes with all the determination she could muster. "I will not let you screw this up. For your sake. Not his."

Brennan's "Okay" was inaudible, as Angela swept her back into her arms.

.

.

.

When they disentangled themselves several minutes later, Brennan's smile and composure were back. "Thanks, Ang. That means a lot."

_Crisis averted. Eyes on the prize, Montenegro._

"It's what I do. But I will require payment for my best-friend services, you know," she replied playfully.

"What kind of payment?" Brennan furrowed her brow in confusion.

"Well, for starters, you're gonna buy _this_ choice little number, along with a few others, and make sure to wear it. Soon. And when Booth does lose his mind, I'm gonna want details. Lots and lots of details."

"Angela!"

"It's the price you gotta pay, Bren. Besides, it's not like you're not getting anything out of this for yourself."

She thought for a moment and smiled a mischievous grin. "You have no idea, Ang. You have _no_ idea."

_Damn straight._

_Mission accomplished._

* * *

_So what are we thinking? Good, bad, god-awful?_


End file.
